


Booze n' Hookers

by urbanmagician



Category: Hellblazer
Genre: Awkwardness, Drinking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:47:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/urbanmagician/pseuds/urbanmagician
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John, Chas, booze, a lot of emotional baggage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Booze n' Hookers

They were long past the "you're my best mate" phase, but still not yet at the "the world is spinning and I can't get up" phase. With the current rate of drinking however, it was due to arrive soon enough. Chas did not remember why were they drinking, or at least why he was. John rarely required clear reasons for this activity. Now he was sitting beside him on the couch, trying to light another cigarette. It was a second try. At the previous one, he burnt his fingers and cussed a lot, and Chas laughed until he nearly puked. He managed to stop himself at the right moment though, solely with the thought of Renee giving him hell for that, later. They were at her living room, after all. Their living room.

He looked out the window. It was nearly morning. Why were they still drinking? Probably because there was still booze. He closed his eyes. Too late to stop now, anyway. They didn't have enough time to recuperate to a state fit enough to clean up. So he'll get an earful about missing the toilet bowl and the bottles and that bastard John getting within a mile's distance to their dwelling. Not that John liked getting within a mile's distance of said dwelling, but tonight was one of those rare occasions when Chas managed to convince him. Why did he do that again? He frowned, trying to remember.

"Hah, I beat ye." John chuckled, exhaling smoke. Then studied Chas' face. "Don't worry mate, just tell the missus it's all my fault, she can't hate me more than she already does."  
"All of it?" Chas grinned. He couldn't think of anything witty right now, but knew that the generalization had potential.  
"All of it." John took it on, with a sweeping motion of his hand. He nearly knocked a beer bottle off the coffee table, caught it, then brought to his mouth for a swig.  
"Tell her... tell her I brought booze and hookers."  
"Why hookers?" Chas frowned in concentration.  
"For fun. Are ye daft?" John drawled, bottle and cigarette exchanging places at his lips.  
"No, why say that. We made drink-mess. Not fuck-mess." Chas explained.  
"Ye thinking a lot today, anything wrong?" John snorted. "And we can take care o' that other mess."

Chas somehow missed the sight of it, but there was the feeling of John's hand groping for his zipper, casually. He didn't react right away, blinking, somehow refusing to believe it was happening. He looked down, to make sure that he isn't making anything up, just in time to witness the fingers plunging in, taking a hold of his dick.  
"L-lay it off, asshole!" He stammered, grabbing the hand, but still too mesmerized to pull. Or push.  
"Why?" John used his indecisiveness for full-length stroking, and it felt... like jacking off felt. A rough male hand stimulating his cock. And it wasn't bad at all.

The bottle was gone somewhere, Chas noted absentmindedly, and the cigarette was in his other hand, the bastard, he was grinning, looking all sly and cool. How did he manage looking like that while jerking a guy off, Chas thought, his heart pounding. That was the bloody curse of him. He was always the awkward sidekick tagging along. Thick and spooked out by all that crap John pretended to be wiping out by a bloody sideways jerk of his pelvis. And Chas knew his friend swings both ways, mostly from crude innuendo and jokes, but he knew him, and could determine half a truth when he hears one. Sometimes, he even felt a pang of jealousy, along the lines of "if it's already a guy, why isn't it me? Am I that unattractive and worthless and only fit for driving you around, ungrateful tosser?" but he would immediately brush it aside as ridiculous, as he did Renee's accusations. The only thing he lacked in his already miserable life is being another of John's girlfriends. Right. He was fucked enough already by being just his friend.

But that was not the point, the sexual freedom or lack thereof. All of it together was, now that he was staring down onto that hand, being the slow spineless one again, the one who lives under a heel, who never has the guts. It was his own fault, and he could change that behavior any time, he thought all of a sudden. Or at least, whenever alcohol gave him the courage and the lightness. Bah. He blinked, and licked his lips, breath heavy. He was now erect in John's hand, and the man was going on stroking, now dumping the cigarette butt into an already overflowing ashtray with the other hand, and then looking back at him... daring? Yes, that. It made Chas' blood boil. That look in his eyes, self satisfied, sure in himself, and somehow inviting. It was easy, or perhaps the booze made it feel so, taking action, being bold. Easier than stammering and trying to push the man away, he found.

He didn't stop to think about the significance of that thought. Didn't even want to. He pushed John down onto the couch, roughly, clumsily, but one could only be that graceful after so much beer. And he didn't give a toss anyway, as he kissed him, and it didn't really feel like kissing. Proper kissing should not involve being prickled by stubble. The lips you kiss should not taste of alcohol and cigarettes, should not fight you for control, and the body under you definitely shouldn't be sporting an erection.

He faux-kissed John some more, running his hands over him, feeling like in a very strange dream, until finally deciding on turning him over. That elicited a groan, which warmed Chas' heart. He enjoyed being the one in control, he found. John didn't truly struggle, but was far from melting under him in a welcoming puddle, either. Determined to make the fucking official, he tugged the other man's pants down, hearing fabric tearing, and ignoring the muffled protests. Then he pulled John's shirt up, surprising himself by kissing his back and kneading his buttocks gently before attempting to push in. Not that the access proved easy. He wasn't used to doing it that way, and now found he has to go through a frustrating trial-and-error process, not dissimilar to drunken insertion of a key into a lock. Not that the unsuccessful attempts weren't fun in and of themselves, his cock rubbing against the man's backside, the man shuddering under him, moving, trying to help.

This wasn't proper fucking, just as the kissing wasn't proper kissing. It was pleasant, but more like a friendly rough-and-tumble than sex. A friendly rough-and-tumble with benefits, because one wasn't supposed to come from that, and Chas felt that he's damn nearly going to, pretty soon. And he was only rubbing over him, no more. When he did get in, shallowly, it was almost by mistake. John hissed, spitting: "S' dry, ye moron!" And Chas pulled out, afraid to truly hurt him, only to be urged back with: "No-no, screw that." He wasn't sure whether this was a statement of disregard or simply an invitation to do just that, but he didn't have to be asked twice. He pushed in, deep, groaning with the unfamiliar feeling of rather dry tightness, enjoying not only the physical, but the emotional part of being inside him, taking him. Finally?

It was surreal, laying on top of his friend, who was moaning in the rhythm of his thrusts, the heat of him, too much of it and the friction so that he was over the edge in what felt like an embarrassingly short minute. He bucked against him, holding on to his already bunched and crumpled shirt, and then he was screaming and crying and sliding out and down, onto the floor. And he sat on the carpet, little shivers of the orgasm still passing through him, not daring to look up at John, wiping his face with his sleeve, so that when he gathers the courage, he would at least not look like a crybaby. John's hand was what brought him from the near-trance then, fingers running through his hair. The man was laying on his side now, smiling, stroking himself with one hand.

"I'm... sorry." Chas said, staring at him.  
"Nah, I wanted that. But if ye help me some more, it'll be real nice." John grinned.  
Chas took a deep breath, and reached forward, his fingers touching John's as the man was taking his hand off. For a moment, he imagined taking his hand gently and suckling on his fingers, but the impulse passed unrealized, and he shivered and looked away.  
"It's okay." John whispered, touching his cheek. "It's okay."  
And Chas told himself to stop the fooling around and do it, like a... man, and he stroked his dick, gathering enough courage to run a hand over his chest while at it, and the man was moaning, thrusting into his hand, not seeming nearly as self-conscious as Chas was. Until he came, throwing his head back, and Chas thought that yes, now they really do have fuck-mess to clean up, and it hit him like a sledgehammer. What would he tell Renee.

Then John stroked his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "We have a couple more hours. C'mere, old man."  
Chas climbed onto the couch again, ending up in a weary lover's embrace with his long-time friend. "Mental, all that." He muttered. "Oh fuck you."  
"Ye already did." John yawned. "Remember what ye tell her?"  
"Ye brought booze and hookers." Chas snorted. "It's stupid and will never work."  
"Absolutely." John agreed. They chuckled, and in the following near-morning silence, they fell asleep.


End file.
